Perception of Justice
by Dr. Rushmore
Summary: PsyCho. Plot exists,and I intend to make it interesting and deep, but I'll be honest and say it's only there as a medium for evil!Harry/Cho. Excessive violence, torture, etc.
1. Prologue

Authors Note: This story will be post-Hogwarts. The Prologue is the exception to the rule.

* * *

They all lied to me. That is my first thought when I discover the truth.

The second one is: one day, they will die for it.

The giant man does not notice my scowl, or how my mind connects the puzzle pieces that have been missing all my life. The Dursleys, my teachers – even this new man – they think I am too young and too stupid to understand what is happening. But I trick them all – I never let on just what I see, what I know. It will be their downfall.

I laugh when the giant man gives Dudley a pig tail. It's not funny – if anything, I should be mad at the giant. He, after all, is going to leave, and I will be left with a very angry Vernon and Aunt Petunia. But I laugh anyway, because for the first time that I can recall that Dudley is in pain.

And there is nothing Vernon or Petunia can do about it.

So I laugh.

The giant man turns to me, his face open, his expression happy. _He's _the idiot, not me – he thinks I'm on his side. But I know that he too, is a liar. He shouts at the Dursleys, tells them off and threatens them – more than threatens Dudley – but he too is a liar.

Because clearly, he knows who I am, and in eleven years, he never came for me. If the Dursleys are as bad as the giant says they are (and they're not, they're much worse – the giant man has frightened them into behaving) then how dare he wait until now to tell them how wrong they are.

He says his name is Hagrid. I say mine is Harry. He laughs, tells me he already knew – that I'm famous where he comes from. That I'm a hero.

I laugh. If nothing else, _that _is funny.

It turns out I am wrong, and that I am going to be leaving the Dursleys after all. Hagrid has a small boat, and as we head back to the shore, he tells me fantastic stories of my parents and of magic.

Magic.

Apparently, I am to go to a special school and learn to be a magician. At first, I did not believe him – but then I remember the pig tail, and now the boat is rowing itself, so I am forced to change my opinion. Even so, I am wary. Magic or no, it is not normal for giants to steal children from their houses, even if one does not wish to be there. My opinion is never asked for, my consent assumed. That does not mean he is wrong, but clearly, he is not to be trusted.

"An' then there's Slytherin." The giant man says with emphasized disgust. "You'll wan' none of them – never was a rotten witch or wizard that didn' come from Slytherin."

I do not know what a Slytherin is – I seem to have missed an important part of the conversation. Reluctantly, I put aside my hatred for this giant, and listen to what he has to say.

Too often, people are all to willing to give you the rope.

* * *

For the first time, I am happy that I was polite and friendly to the giant – his tremendous bulk notwithstanding as reason enough. All day, he shows me things that I cannot begin to describe, a place of... _magic._

Diagon Alley. I have never been to London proper before, but it is obvious that even if I went a million times, I would never have found it if I had not been looking for it – and even then, only if I had magic.

And yet, it is a city unto itself. Hagrid has a copy of the letter that Vernon would not let me read, and tells me we will follow the instructions, buying all the things I will need for this new school. It gives me hope – if all of this existed, then surely there must be a school for one to learn about it. For the first time, I allow myself to dream. But dreaming is not enough. I must learn all I can about this new world, so that one day, I will be the best. So that nobody can make me go where I do not want to go. Because magic does not change the simple fact that there are many Vernons in the word.

The first place we go is the bank. There I learn my next lesson.

The giant man and his ilk have lied to the Dursleys as well.

There is no other explanation. If the Dursleys understood the extent of my 'freakishness', then they would have come here themselves, and taken this from me. A vault, protected by goblins of all things, full of piles of gold and silver and bronze. I am glad that Hagrid is talking to the goblin – I cannot hide my look at this unexpected prize, and for now, I need Hagrid to believe that I am still a lost little boy – which is more true than I am comfortable with. I cannot afford to alienate the one person who has told me all I know – even if one day he will pay too.

I am given a bag to place a combination of the coins into it. Hagrid tells me how many of each coin make up the other, but this information is not useful in its own right. I do not know how much my supplies will cost, and so I have no idea how much to take. It is frustrating, but I will get by – if I must, I can always come back here. Hagrid makes a stop at his own vault, but it's all but empty – a small brown package is all that is in his vault. He takes it, sticking it into his pocket while looking at me uneasily. I shrug – the giant's business is his own.

We go and buy all the books I will need from the list. I also buy a few books about wizard history and even what looks like a wizard novel. _The Cursed Caliph of Cairo_, it is called. It was in in a selection of _Witch Weekly's Best of the Books. _I assume that is equivalent to a best seller – perhaps Witch Weekly is a magazine for book lovers. It will do – I will not enter this new world without having any idea as to how they do things. I have already endured being thought stupid, I will not do so now.

Hagrid does not mind. Not that it is his business, but again, I do not want to upset him quite yet. Instead, he gets teary-eyed, saying that of course I want to discover the world my parents grew up in – that I too should have already been a part of.

We continue to a number of other shops. Some, like the bookstore, are very similar to their nonmagical counterparts. Others, such as the Apothecary, have no equivalent. It is an experience, to say the least.

Finally, we come to the last item on my list – a wand. When we reach the front door of our destination, Hagrid mumbles an excuse of needing to pick up one last thing. I smile. I can add two and two – his request that I not mention his use of magic, his use of an umbrella... and now avoiding the wand shop. The giant has something to hide – something that he has let me find out about.

For now though, I listen to his excuses, and assure him it is alright. I am to pick a wand, and then go across the street to the main square, where there is an ice cream parlor. I am to meet Hagrid there, no excuses.

With a nod and a smile of reassurance, I enter the wand shop. It is musty and quite dark – not at all what I expected.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. I did think you might be around today. You'll be wanting a wand, I presume."

The voice does not ask it as a question – it knows everything it wants to know. I jump, startled, and look around for the source. In front of me, a short, thin, balding man appears from behind a shelf filled to the ceiling with small wooden boxes – wands, I guess.

"Yes, yes of course you are." He says, answering his own not-a-question. "Let's get you sorted out then."

It is frustrating. For an hour, we go through more wands than I can count. I do not want to admit it, but for the first time since coming to Diagon Alley, I am beginning to doubt myself, and my place in this new world I have entered. When another wand is snatched from my hand before I can even wave it, I snap at the old man, demanding to at least try the wand. He does not look at me, rummaging through the boxes, mumbling that it is the wand that picks the wizard, not the other way round.

Finally, he picks up a box of dark, shining wood, taking the lid off. "A very unusual wand," he tells me, as if we are sharing a great secret. I pick it up.

And for a moment, it feels _right. _Perfect. As if until this moment, my arm had not been complete. The old man breaks into a smile, before it falters as he watches me.

Suddenly, my arm grows hot, as if the entire limb is being burned. I feel angry – my vision fades into spots of red and black, as if the world around me is bubbling in fire. Yet I cannot let go, my hand white as my grip tightens on the wand against my will.

And then it as if the whole world around me explodes. The pain is unbearable, the noise hellish. It lasts a fraction of a second, yet I can remember every part of it with perfect clarity. A storm of pure violence and fury has erupted from me, or the wand, or everything around us. Shaking, I come to, looking at the wand. It looks like a burned stick now, a sliver of steam coming our of numerous cracks in the blackened wood.

"Not Phoenix feather then," the old man replies, his voice calm, but even he is paler than before. Snatching the wand from me, he shoves it back into the box with a speed that seems unnatural, before he moves away, a pale box tinged with red in his hand. "Unicorn, fourteen inches, cedar. Well grounded, ideal for charms work..."

Twenty minutes later I leave the wand shop. Eleven and a quarter inches, dragon heart, hawthorn. I am told such a wand will channel great power, though may have difficulties with intricate detail. He tells me my mother's wand was quite the opposite.

This I take as a good sign, because she is dead, and I am not.

When I arrive at Fortescue's Ice Cream, Hagrid is waiting outside with two icecreams, looking very anxious. I ask how he knew I was coming, pointing at the waiting ice cream. He tells me the ice cream doesn't melt until it is eaten. I nod – magic.

When we finish, Hagrid pulls up a bird cage, with a snowy white owl inside. He tells me she is a birthday present from him – that her name is Hedwig, and she is a magic owl. I ask how an owl can be magic, and Hagrid launches into a tale about how wizards use them as a sort of post. I nod politely, expressing my gratitude for such a thoughtful gift. I consider telling him that it is the first gift I have ever gotten, but decide against it. He had met the Dursley's, he can surely make his own conclusion. If not, I'm certainly not going to feed them to him.

I take a closer look at the bird. It looks back, too aware that I am watching it. If it delivers post, it must be an intelligent animal. And with magic... I do not like this gift that can watch me back. I do not trust it.

As soon as I can do so without suspicion, I will kill it.

But the reason I am glad that I befriended this giant is because he gives me the choice to not see the Dursleys again – until next year. He says that the headmaster of the school has given permission for me to lodge in Diagon Alley for the month, with Hagrid as my keeper of course, until it is time to begin term. Of course I accept – a month will give me ample time to acclimatize myself to my new environment.

And now I have a second name. One who is clearly the boss of the giant – Albus Dumbledore.

More than likely, he is much more to blame than the giant. Certainly, one day I will face him, and make him answer for his crimes.

Unfortunately, even a single question to Hagrid makes it clear that such a day will not come for a very long time.

I spent ten years in a cupboard under the stairs. I can wait.

* * *

One month later, and Hagrid takes me to King's Cross. It is time to go to Hogwarts.

I have learned much in that time. I have read most of my school books, though I am not allowed to use magic, Hagrid tells me. I do not know if he is lying, but until I can ask someone without bringing attention to myself, I obey. Not that it matters, I don't know any spells yet anyway.

_The Cursed Caliph of Cairo _was a waste of time. Witch Weekly is a magazine for young witches, and The Cursed Caliph is... a book for young witches. Still, it is good that I made this mistake before I met any wizards my own age – it would have been humiliating to have begun reading it at Hogwarts, only to find out then what it was truly about.

_Hogwarts. _There is very little written about it, surprisingly. One giant tome called _Hogwarts, a History _seems to contain all there is about the school. A copy of it rests in my trunk, but I have only read a little of it. It is full of useless trivia, telling me nothing about what I can expect to face.

But in my experience, I have learned to read between the lines. Ways to talk to Vernon or Petunia or my school teachers without telling the truth or lying. The book about Hogwarts stinks of the very same roundabout explanations.

For instance, I am told that there are forty thousand wizards in all of Britain. And yet, without giving exact numbers it seems that a Hogwarts year consists of only around forty students. It is certainly clear that at any one time, Hogwarts never houses anywhere near four hundred people. And yet, the pictures of the school show a castle capable of holding many times that number.

It is all very mysterious.

I board the train without Hagrid – he has left me since I crossed over the barrier. I do not stand around on the platform. I have no family or friends to say goodbye to. Instead, I lug my trunk onto the train, move to the very back of the train, and slide into an open compartment.

The ride is long, but nonetheless present. A few people join me in my compartment, but I do not look up from my book. For their part, they make no move to interrupt my reading, and so we pass the time in civilized silence. I like the silence.

Despite all the stories that the children tell amongst themselves, and the lack of explanation in _Hogwarts, A History, _we are told that each of us shall put on a talking hat to determine out future house. We are told by the hat that our house is chosen by our natural qualities. It seems a very divisive way to segregate school children. I shrug – in truth I don't care very much. One of the children behind me curses his brothers who told him he had to fight a troll.

_Well, well – Mr. Harry Potter. You've been quite the talk of the castle since your owl arrived. Now what to do with you – tricky one, you are._

Already, I do not like this hat. Like the owl I have yet to rid myself of, it knows too much for a _thing._

_Yes... yes. You'd do well in Slytherin. _The hat continues, as if I had not thought anything. Perhaps it is unable to truly see individual thoughts or communicate with me – the old witch did say it judges us on personalities and qualities, not exact experiences or current thoughts. An important difference, as I have very few of the latter that I want to share.

_But...your ambition is narrowly focused. You desires to limited to your own wellbeing. Worthy enough, but not quite what I'm looking for. Such dedication, and the mind to master what you need... a thirst for learning. Yes, Slytherin is not quite right for you._

The hat shouts, "Ravenclaw!" Face impassive, I move to the table with the blue banner above it. The looks of my new house mates range from curious to questioning to mildly bored. I sit next to a boy with curly blond hair. He gives me a nervous smile. I return one, though full of confidence – I am going to succeed here.

And my house mates will follow.


	2. Chapter 1

_Clop clop clop clop._

The only sound this deep in the Ministry of Magic is a pair of women's pumps, moving with a speed that spoke of anxiety without betraying outright panic. The woman wearing the shoes is tall and thin, her hair done up in a graying bun, arms holding a think sheaf of documents to her chest.

_Clop clop clop clop._

She comes to a stop outside the only door in the hallway where a thin line of light at the bottfom betrays its current use. Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the doorknob, opening it to reveal two men inside.

"Gentlemen," she says, no emotion save exhaustion evident in her voice.

"Good evening", the shorter of the two respond, a short but bulky man wiFth balding red hair. As she closes the door, he gives what passes for a friendly greeting. "Tonks."

In an instant, the woman seems to melt away, shrinking two inches while putting on lean muscle, her face becoming visibly younger as her body transforms into that of a woman in her late twenty's.

"Minister Scrimgeour," she nods towards the first man. "Sir," she says to the second, a taller man with dark skin and a hideously maimed face. "The twenty-four hour limit has long since passed. As commander of this operation, I must advise the immediate implication of _Plan 22_."

The two men show twin looks of unease, yet no shock or surprise register on either face.

"Are you sure," the black man – Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head of Auror Department asks. "No vessel left the island – the auror relief force was not due for another two days. Surely he could not have escaped."

Tonks takes a deep breath. Exhausted and frustrated as she is, she knows it would do no good to yell at her two most powerful superiors.

"It's of course well within the realms of possibility that the prisoner is still within the prison grounds..." She begins, though her doubt at such is obvious. "However, Plan 22 specifically states that unless such has been proven as fact, then it is to be implemented within 24 hours – that time has passed."

Plan 22. An insight into postwar preparedness and despair.

Learning from the errors of Fudge's wartime administration, and in particular its unpreparedness to deal with Azkaban breakouts, the postwar regime has set about creating a number of contingencies for any situation that might arise.

Though noone says a word, it is clear that all three are reflecting on the value of such unusual foresight, all while dreading that such has actually come to pass.

"Right then." the minister whispers. "Implement the Plan – how much can you get done before the morning _Prophet_?_"_

Tonks shrugs, though her expression is thoughtful. "We've raised the general level of alert within the corps as soon as we received word of the escape. No specifics, but every auror on the force has been put on standby, and the hit wizards have been contacted to mobilize by squad-level. McGonnagal has been briefed, and a detachment of aurors is ready to deploy to Hogwarts at your word. Everywhere else – Diagon, the Ministry – will have additional security well in place come the morning rush..."

Tonks pauses, the rest of her preparation not quite in line with the proper lines of authority and protocol she is meant to follow.

"We've tagged the entire list of likely contacts – all will be under direct surveillance within the hour, if they aren't already. Beyond that," she sighed, "We need to enact Plan 22."

"Right then," the minister grumbles. "Kingsley, you'll coordinate the national response. Send anyone from the media to my office on my order – I'll make a statement after the Prophet publishes the morning edition, and then have any further questions directed to my staff. Chief Auror Tonks – see to the full implementation of Plan 22. Use of deadly force is authorized if the prisoner is contacted."

Tonks's eyes widen – though on second thought she isn't quite sure why she is so surprised. Logically, it makes sense. Emotionally...

"Chief Auror - " Scrimgeour interrupts her thoughts, pulling Tonks back into the conversation. The minister has taken a single sheet of parchment from the desk, holding it out towards her. "These are the changes you are to make to Plan 22. This information does not leave this room." His tone and expression broker no argument.

Tonks takes the sheet, eyes scanning quickly across it, her expression changing from shocked to angry in a matter of seconds.

"This is ridiculous! When were these changes authorized? I've never heard anything about this, and this could threaten the integrity of the mission. Why... you deliberately want me to withhold half my best men!"

"Auror Tonks," the minister snaps. "Look over that list and you will see very well why we want them removed. And why we couldn't make such policy public, even within the confines of the corps. Every single auror on that list could have been compromised – every single one spent time at Hogwarts in close contact with the prisoner."

"Yes... but..." Tonks lets out a breath, her anger waning. "Half my active field force wereRavenclaws back at Hogwarts. Surely you don't believe the force is so compromised tha- "

"We don't know," Shacklebolt interrupts, voice grim. "But it's too sensitive to risk, and our intelligence shows the any member of that house from ninety-one to ninety-eight is suspect – there's simply no way to know who when push comes to shove is loyal to him first. You are to shuffle them to nonessential tasks, ideally unrelated to this mission, provided it does not create a leak in security or that this order has been issued. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Tonks bites out, more sharply than she intends to. But dammit, she is going to lose a lot of good aurors, on no other grounds than fear and baseless suspicion.

"And these other two?" she asks, eager to move the conversation to more comfortable grounds.

Shacklebolt nods. "Chang's mediwizard has been one of our agents ever since she was admitted to St. Mungo's. He can hold is own in a fight, but we're not taking any chances. A safe house has been prepared – again, we didn't want to risk a leak prior to implication. You'll manage the move personally – don't bring anyone else. Fullstop."

Tonks nods – she expects nothing less from Kingsley. Shacklebolt continues.

"Same goes for the wand. The moment Plan 22 is signed into order by the minister, you'll have a twenty minute window of access into Vault B. I want the wand snapped and Patroni-delivered conformation regarding the same."

Now, Tonks's look of confusion is due to incredulity, as opposed to anger. "Snap it _now," _she demands, gob smacked. "Why on earth didn't we do this... oh, say – three years ago."

"Politics," Shacklebolt says with obvious distaste, earning him a dirty look from Scrimgeour. "Same reason we couldn't just have the bastard kissed and be done with the whole lot of it. That wand killed You-know-who – the fact that it killed a muggleborn shortly thereafter and a half dozen aurors after that doesn't make it any less of a relic in the eyes of the world. We couldn't snap it."

"What, and now we can?" Tonks quips, sniping at the taller man.

Kingsley's eyes narrow. "This time tomorrow, we risk that relic becoming the weapon of choice of the most powerful wizard left alive. We have the authority."

"Mmm," Tonks replies, slightly mollified.

"That's enough," hisses Scrimgeour, glaring daggers at the two aurors. "Plan 22 will be enacted, and it will be done in full, by the letter, by this time tomorrow. Clear?"

"Yes, Minister," come the two replies simultaneously, both with professional crispness.

Two minutes later, Tonks is out the office, back in her original disguise and moving with due speed towards Vault B. Ruefully, she wonders if snapping his wand will make any difference – it certainly hasn't hindered his escape.

Twelve minutes more, holding the two dead pieces of perhaps the most famous wand of the 20th century, she can only hope that it has.

* * *

_Chop chop chop chop._

Below me the sounds of waves are faint against the wind in my ears. I am not particularly high – I am all but skimming the waves – just about ten feet above the water. Even so, the sound of wind, of freedom, drowns out almost everything.

Except the chopping of the waves.

_Chop chop chop chop._

Wizards are for the most part pathetic. Too often, they think their solutions solve any possible eventuality, any circumstance. Even after two escapes from that cursed hell of a prison, they thought their new protections would prevent a third. The increased wards, the phasing out of Dementors with human guards...

And, to be fair, they hold me for almost three years. Almost one thousand days to the letter. They know I could not escape my cell. They know that even if I could dig through the stone, or escape through the tiny barred window, that I could not survive the fall into the rocky shallows below where the waves crashed the shore.

They know that without my wand, I can do no magic.

And so, the wizards think they were safe, protected by stone and iron and magic from the monster in the tower.

But the monster has a tongue.

They do not expect me to converse for an hour every chance I get with the auror who patrolled my corridor once every four days. It takes me almost three years to gain her trust, her friendship, and by the end – her affection. They were foolish to entrust one who for years I discover had worshiped me from afar, as a hero, the savior against Voldemort. They were foolish to assume such infatuation could be destroyed by something as silly as seven murders.

Wizards are for the most part, pathetic.

Still, it takes me three years. But I finally have what I have not had in all that time.

A follower.

Though even at the end, she is not entirely willing – a part of her unsure as to what she ought to do. In the end though, she takes that single step that determined her fate. A single step.

Into my cell.

Within seconds, I am upon her, her wand forced from its holster – foolish – and my hands around her throat. She is weak, dependent on magic and even there she is hardly strong. She guards hungry, wandless prisoners, after all, in the least desirably auror station in Britain. It makes it so much easier.

Azkaban is a pathetic prison. For those without a wand, escape is all but impossible – only the traitor Black accomplished it, or so I assume. But once one has a wand...

Escape is as simple as an apparition. Or rather a sidealong, because I take the body.

No need to leave evidence after all.

I apparate down to the water level, about one hundred yards away from the prison itself. I cannot cross the wide boundary around the prison without being caught in the wards, so I would have to swim the remaining 100 yards – no magic allowed.

It is difficult. My body is weaker than it should be, and the waters are treacherous, my burden heavy. But I manage.

The moment I break out the boundary, the waves calm sightly, no longer swept up in the dark magics that surround the prison. Without hesitation, I transform the auror's clothes into stone, watching with a smile as she sinks into the murky water.

It would be ages before – if – they ever find her. Moving water makes it all but impossible to trace magic. And I am swimming in it.

One levitation charm and propulsion charm later, and I am flying once more – for the first time in three years.

Freedom.

And still, nothing has changed. My focus as clear as it has been every day for the past ten years. Those who have done me harm need to be repaid. Permanently.

As I head back to the mainland – staying well away from the route Aurors use coming to and from the prison – I take a moment to mourn all those who will never feel my justice. Dumbledore had been killed at the end of the war, during my sixth year. By Snape...

I smile. _He, _at least, is still alive – exonerated on the grounds that his murder of Dumbledore had been an established plan, orchestrated by Dumbledore himself. Oh yes, I am going to enjoy meeting him again.

In fact, after a moment's thought, I decide he ought to be my first, once I reestablish myself. I deserve a bit of luxury after being left to rot. He would certainly be a great way to start once more.

Yes, I smile.

I land on a beach in the north of Scotland some time later. Hours, minutes – I have no idea. I have all but lost track of time, measuring days only by the appearance and reappearance of my former friend in the auror corps. But it is still dark – dawn still many hours away.

I sneer. Aurors – pathetic. I was weeks away from graduating when I was thrown into Azkaban. Standard procedure regarding Azkaban is a forty-eight hour search of the prison, the island itself, the waters and the landing dock before alerting the general public. Half that time if a change of guard has just taken place. Half that again if two or more persons escape. I had no doubt I would not be granted the full forty-eight hours before every wizard was looking for me, but then again, they wouldn't be eager to report my absence until they had gone through every other possibility – no matter how obviously remote said possibilities were.

As I have said, my watcher was weak. Her wand is no different – it leaks magic carelessly, neither powerful nor delicate. Needless to say, I will need to replace it soon. My own wand is locked within the ministry – where exactly I didn't know. How to reach it, I didn't know. But in the here and now, this current wand is an unacceptable substitute.

Fortunately, I am an extraordinary wizard. With minimal effort, I apparate to Carlisle.

I stay at the station until dawn. The first train of the morning comes in not soon after, taking in the first of the passengers making the journey southwards. Even with my new wand, and my lack of recent practice, it is hardly taxing to place a notice-me-not charms over my rags, nor to make my rags slightly more appealing, should the first charm fail for a moment.

At Birmingham, I get off the train – a major center for muggles and wizards alike, I will not be traced here. It is safe then, to make my second apparition.

To the place none would expect me to go. Southwest England in general. Wiltshire in particular. Just outside the wards protecting Malfoy manor, if one is to be specific.

Malfoy Manor – always one of the most protected places in Britain, made more so by Narcissa Black after she had wiggled the remains of her family out of Voldemort's grasp at the end of his second reign. Now, she suffers political alienation, with more rouge death eaters and vigilantes after her scion than any other dark family that escaped justice.

So yes, vengeance perhaps, would explain my presence.

Until I step through the wards, without any more effort than taking a single step.

This place would be my sanctuary.

I had killed Lucius at the height of the war – it had been his death that convinced Narcissa to hedge her bets. For seven years, I had taken delight in tormenting Draco – a child that was not even half the worm his father had been. And now, I take enormous satisfaction in turning his own home against him.

In my seventh year of Hogwarts, returning a hero from the war, I had tasked myself to ruining two girls, daughters of a particular nasty enemy in the press – the last of such I ever had prior to my incarceration.

The first, I utterly destroyed. She left Hogwarts broken and alone. Branded by all as a traitor and a monster. Her marriage contract broken, her fortune destroyed, her future utterly razed to the ground.

It amused me that she was nothing more than a distraction. Daphne Greengrass, even in destruction she was still second best.

Because the other had been my true goal. Much more subtle, a seduction of the utmost secrecy, and yet so much more longer lasting than even the hell I made of Daphne's life.

Daphne was never even granted the closure of knowing who had destroyed her. Who cut her strings from the shadows, until she lay alone and broken in the dust that before she would not have deigned to so much look at.

The other knew full well who had ruined them both – one of only two who did – and she loved him for it.

Astoria Greengrass, now Lady Malfoy.

It is – was – a risk, that she would remain so cowed even with my imprisonment. But there is no real doubt – I am that extraordinary.

And if nothing else, my current standing on the inside of the wards prove it.

Draco would never think – never even deem to check – that one such as I might be considered a guest of honor in his home – that I can come in whenever I so desire.

Not once in three years has he checked. Fool.

As I approach the front door in broad daylight, the only question remaining is whether I will kill him myself, or whether the pleasure of betrayal as his own wife turns her wand upon him would be worth the cost of not killing him myself.

Decisions, decisions.

The board is set – it is time to move my first pawn.


	3. Chapter 2

Malfoy Manor.

It is a beautiful place – truly. A large stone mansion surrounded by tastefully arranged gardens, well away from the nearest muggle town. The house is not overtly showy or ostentatious – it simply sits there, confident in its superiority.

The front door is large, made of dark brown wood that stands out against the soft grey of the stone. Inset into the door too high for a man to reach is a knocker. It amuses me, this petty play towards magical superiority. The house is well protected – muggles could never find it, and even wizards would never reach the door without an invitation from the host. And yet, one is required to knock – and do so in a way that requires the use of a wand.

I suppose it sets a first impression.

With a lazy twirl of my wand, the knocker raps the door sharply. The door opens by itself, and I step forward, into the waiting parlor while I wait for my host to greet me. The elves remain hidden – they do not dare allow their master's guest to see them, and they have no interest in my affairs – my admittance into the house more than proof enough of my allowance to be here.

I hear quick footsteps coming down the hall – obviously, despite my presence, I am unexpected.

"Good afterno-" Astoria stops, her scripted introduction cut off as she looks at my face. Three years, and I have no doubt she recognizes me instantly.

And I am not disappointed. Her eyes betray the exact moment she realizes who I am – a delightful concoction of fear and worship – though the quickly masked shock is unacceptable. It ought to never have been in doubt that I would leave that hovel behind – no power on earth can keep me caged.

"Hello, Astoria," I say slowly, walking forward towards her, my hand raising as if to cup her face. She flinches, ever so slightly, and I can see her tense as she quashes down her natural reaction to back away.

"Where is everyone?" I would like to take more time to torment my little pet, but security is always the first issue – duty before desire and what have you.

"Draco is in Bristol for the day... I don't know what his business is, but he's never home before late evening." She gushes, her pace frantic, unsure if this knowledge pleases me or not. "Narcissa is at the summer residence in the south of France. She will not be returning until mid-August, at the earliest."

"Narcissa," I drawl, when it is clear she has finished speaking and I have no risk of interruption. "You must think highly of yourself, to call the matriarch of your new family by her given name. Have we forgotten our place, since last we met."

She looks down, suddenly intent to study her feet. Oh, the delicious irony of watching one of the pureblood elite not daring to look me in the eye, both lacking the strength and sense of self worth to do so... a lovely twist from what I endured through my early years at Hogwarts.

"After your... removal of the former head of this house, the marriage contract between myself and Draco was very much in flux. With my new status as heir-apparent of my family after my – afterwards – my father was able to renegotiate from a position of strength." Her eyes flick up for an instant, stopping at my chin, before she looks down once more.

"One of the conditions was the immediate acquisition of the familial title of Lady of the House. As such, proper etiquette says I may call her by her given name."

I nod, uninterested. I simply like to watch her fluster. I've been lacking any real form of entertainment for quite some time now – it is a nice reintroduction to it.

"How is your sister?" I ask airily, picking up on her choice of words from earlier.

She flushes, no amount of pureblood etiquette able to prevent her from fidgeting nervously. "I have not spoken to her since her banishment. Last I heard, she was living on her own, somewhere around London." She pauses, a trickle of nervous hope in her voice when she speaks again. "Do you wish to see her. I am sure I can find her if you so desire."

"No, not particularly," I reply with measured disregard, pleased to quash that desire that is I hope is the last bond of familial love between the two estranged sisters. I smile, gently lifting her chin to force her to meet my eyes. "It's you who I want – you're my special girl."

It is a sign of just how fucked up the wizarding world is that in a nutshell, that's how I won over the youngest Greengrass those many years ago. The younger sibling of a family without sons, she was a conflict of personal ambition and greater obligations. She was one of the few I was able to reach outside my own house at Hogwarts, and she was not coincidentally one of my greatest works. I played the sisters against one another, ultimately promising Astoria everything she thought she wanted – for the price of her sister.

Silly thing she was, she agreed without a moments hesitation.

And so I destroyed Daphne – took everything from her knowing that with the clockwork precision of the old families, Astoria would fill the role her sister was banished from. I tore the family apart, whispering promises to Daphne, promises that tempted her outside the future her father had so carefully planned. And then I took them all away the moment she jumped. Like a very twisted phoenix, Astoria rose from the ashes of her father's reputation.

In the end, he got off lucky. He only lost his life and reputation. His daughters lost their souls.

She's helpless now. She knows what it cost for her to gain everything I have given her – the luxury and for all of Malfoy's blusterings – the degree of independence she could never have hoped for otherwise. But it is all a farce, and she knows how trapped she is. She is to weak, to accustomed, to give up the lifestyle she is so enamoured with, and even if she could, she is not strong enough to endure what I put her sister through – her all but guaranteed fate if she chose to cross me.

Yes, through her own weakness, Astoria sold herself to me, mind, body, and soul.

Sometimes, I suspect she tells herself that even that is too good for her.

"Now then," I say, bringing myself out of my own memories as I remove my hand, her eyes immediately leaving my own once more. "We have much to discuss – my absence will have already been discovered, and the search will soon be underway. Prepare me a meal – I need to get out of these rags and I have not been afforded the luxury of running water for some time. Your chambers remain on the west wing?"

She nods, before withdrawing to the main parlor, where she will undoubtedly call upon the elves to prepare my lunch. It is amusing once again, to see the lady of the manor react like a serving girl. I did this twice before my incarceration, both times during Draco's trial. It is nice to see some things never grow tiresome.

The hot water running down my body is a glorious sensation. I am quick about it – I am not joking when I say these first few hours are valuable. Too soon, the wizards will prepare themselves, and while I do not doubt I am stronger than any number of them, the last three years prove that I am not infallible. Everything I do after the general alert will be that much harder – once a new status quo has been established, I shall allow myself these little pleasures.

I step out the washroom, pleased to see that a fresh selection of clothes have been laid out for me. A fresh, neatly pressed robe – it is not uncommon for the old families to keep an updated wardrobe of new clothes for overnight visitors – another sign of extravagant wealth and a tribute to the old rules of hospitality that has not quite died away with the modern reality of the needlessness of such traditions. That, or Astoria sent out for them while I was washing – she would not dare test my anger if forced to wear Malfoy's clothes, despite my seemingly desperate situation.

She is standing to the side of the dining table when I enter, a plate of roast lamb and vegetables waiting for me on a self warming plate. "Is it Sunday?" I ask, nodding towards the food. She nods.

"Huh." I reply with a shrug. "Nice to know."

I bite into the food. I am not utterly famished – I stole a pork pie at the muggle station in Birmingham – but I have not eaten real food in a very long time. Logically, I know I must be careful not to eat too much, too soon, but I am unable to resist the first few bites of such a delicious meal.

"You should have prepared soup," I exclaim as I prepare to take another bite of potato. "How foolish are you, to feed a man who has eaten nothing but bread and water a massive meal before he has time to adjust?"

She nods, making hushed promises to do so in the future, but makes no move on way or another. Scowling, I point to the seat across from me, motioning her to sit.

"Sit," I growl, when she makes no move, and she nods, rushing to comply.

"Your meekness is infuriating – I did not seek the assistance of a house elf by mistake, perhaps?" She shakes her head furiously, and I am happy to see that for the first time, there is a spark of defiance. But

_only _a spark. And even that is carefully guarded.

Anything more would be unacceptable.

"I love you, you know that, don't you my sweet?" I ask, voice uncharacteristically tender. She nods – I think she might very well break down in a moment. "I only want to see you rise to your full potential."

"Thank you," she whispers.

"So..." I pause, unsure where to start. My unwitting accomplice on my guard duty seldom talked of anything important – too much would have given my game away, and she was hardly 'in the know' of anything relevant anyway.

"I recall I left you with instructions regarding my finances. I require a new wand, and though I doubt my old flat would be an option at this time, I would like to arrange for a new residence until a more permanent situation can be reached."

"Your accounts have been frozen." She begins quickly, continuing before I can cut her off. "Ministry passed unanimously the right to freeze monetary holdings of convicted cri- wizards. The goblins went along with it – they've been on much friendlier terms with the new ministry after Voldemort's short occupation of Gringotts itself before the end of the war..."

I nod – this was not wholly unexpected, but I can see the clear relief on her face that I am not going to punish her for this regardless. Slower, she continues, "However, the accounts we created in Zurich have gone on unnoticed – the gnomes neutrality fully adhered to, and their offshore location..." she shrugs, letting out a breath she had been holding, "there is enough money there to ensure a year's living – much less so if you use it to buy a home, more if you live frugally."

At my look of obvious distaste at the notion, she delves on. "Of course, you are more than welcome to stay in any of the Malfoy homes or residences for as long as you desire, and the Malfoy vaults are at your disposal as well." She pauses, looking down, a slight sense of shame obvious in her tone. "Of course, we must prepare for discovery and subsequent refusal by either Draco or his mother."

"They will be dealt with soon enough," I reply, neither elaborating on that nor explicitly accepting her invitation. "I will entrust you to arrange for my immediate necessities, save the wand. Arrange one of the smaller properties up north for my use – something Draco would hardly remember exists, let alone ever visit. It will suffice for now."

"What time is it?" I ask suddenly, the overwhelming task ahead of my pushing my thoughts in many directions.

"Around two... you came in at around half-past," she replies, uncertain as to why I am asking.

Thinking quickly, I struggle to remember time. After so long, such small amounts of time - hours - lose any real meaning. "I have been missing for about half a day I suppose – if I am lucky then at most I had a half shift before my escape would have been noticed. Where is Cho?"

"Cho?" Astoria repeats dumbly, trying to follow my illogical jumps of thought. "Chang?"

I nod, gesturing for her to hurry up.

"St. Mungo's. Officially, in the long term trauma ward."

Officially. I hate that word. Officially, Hogwarts is a school to train young wizards and witches. Officially, Voldemort had not returned until well the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Officially, Harry Potter lived in a closet because his aunt's protection kept him safe... Officially, Harry Potter never lived in a broom closet...

It is nothing but lies and filth and rot, packaged up nice and neat so nobody suspects its true nature.

"And unofficially," I whisper, though even I can hear the underlying malice in my words.

"Unofficially... she's being kept there under heavy doses of potions. The minister... they all feared that she would have the desire and the contacts on the outside to break you out of Azkaban. They all but know she's the secret keeper to _something_, but they can't get it out of her what it is – they're terrified, how unwaveringly loyal she is to you. But... they can't try her in court – no hard evidence, nothing that could get her put in Azkaban, and she's too high profile and there is too much sympathy for her to be thrown in anyway. So they went for a compromise solution – not very elegant, but it's worked thus far."

My eyes narrow – she told me too much, too easily. "You knew all this... you knew what they were doing to her, and you did nothing to get her out." Her face registers that she recognizes her mistake.

"I tried! I promise...I know how much she mean- "

"No," I hiss, "you have no idea. A _thing _like you could never know just how much I value another human being – and the one I cherish the most at that. As for what she meant... if you are hinting that she is no longer capable of being what she once was, I will make what happened to your sister seem a dreamworld in comparison. Are we clear?"

A twin set of tears roll down her cheeks, and she sobs out a silent _yes_.

"Hey now, no tears my sweet," I hush, leaning across the table to stroke her cheek softly with my right hand. "I could never stand to see you cry." She trembles, her body shaking from stifled sobs. "It's ok,  
I assure, "you can only do what you are capable of, and sometime I forget just how much more capable than everyone else I am." She pauses, unsure as how she is to respond, before she settles once more for a slight nod of the head.

"Tonight is the best time for a rescue then – anything after that will just give them more time to prepare for me. They know I have to come for her – better when they are still unsure how I have escaped, much less where I have gone to."

She says nothing, sitting their in tear-stained silk, even after all these years walking the fine line of loving and hating me.

Say what you will about the girl, but she's passionate. Whatever she does, she does with all her heart.

It must be the most vicious tug-of-war game ever played, right inside her chest.

"I'll give you an hour to prepare my new residence. I need practice – come see me in the dueling chambers when you are finished – I want to be out of here long before Draco is in any danger of returning."

I stand up, leaving my empty plate and heading down the stairs to the old dungeons that Draco's great grandfather – a master dueler of his time – had converted into one of the greatest dueling chambers I have ever seen. Elegant in its simplicity and beautiful in its functionality – one day I will have my own, just like it.

But for now, I need to practice, and quickly, My own natural talents notwithstanding, I am still rusty from lack of practice. It is unfortunate that I should be forced to make my move tonight, but it is critical I rescue mine before she is moved to an unaccessible location, even for one of my talents. It is unfortunate, but there is no other option.

Because unlike Dumbledore and Voldemort and the Dursley's and the Ministry and every other excuse of a human being out there, I have never lied about my goal.

To make the world a better place. For me and mine.

I never exclude that caveat, never pretend to be something I am not.

Nonetheless, it is remarkable how many consider themselves to be part of that number. Of all who aren't, only one witch ever had the foresight to recognize her own exclusion, and the sheer lack of common sense to dare to confront me over it, to force my hand, to _blackmail _me.

Hermione Granger – a girl who was very rarely outright wrong, but had a very naive set of notions on the value of being right.

I am digressing once more – it is hard to remain focused, the time in Azkaban was ripe for disjointed thoughts and plans, leaping from one end of the spectrum to the other without bothering about the middle ground. But now, that needs to be addressed because there is no more room for error.

To make the world better for me and mine. To punish those who escaped their earned justice.

But for tonight, the lens is much more focused.

I need to rescue Cho – the girl who loves me.

* * *

"The wand has been destroyed sir, both bits have been left in vault B." comes the disembodied voice of Tonks from the small bird-shaped patronus currently flying in lazy circles of Shackebolt's head.

Both men take the announcement with a professional distaste. It is... sloppy, but no investigation can now prove that either the Head Auror or the Minister himself has come in contact with the wand, and if Auror Tonks is caught, then she might possibly be let off without a dishonorable discharge on the grounds that clearly, a senior official must have ordered her to snap it, given the clearances required to do so. Plausible deniability all around, even if any amount of common sense shows just how implausible it really is.

"Right then," Scrimgeour sighs, pulling out a simple silver pocket watch from his robes. "She'll be at St. Mungo's in twenty minutes, another ten to explain the situation and another ten after that to move the subject on site... we can go home in an hour – pretend to sleep a bit so we can get up and deal with the fallout," he finishs grimly, letting out a morbid sounding chuckle.

Kingsley nods solemnly, tracking the seconds silently as he to counted down until this first phase, at least, can be checked off as complete.

It will be, all things considered, a laughably small victory, given the events of the last twenty-four hours. Still, his years on the force has made him acutely aware of the need to never give up a win, no matter how small.

"Any minute now," he whispers quietly to himself. "Any minute now."

Across London, Cho Chang smiles.


End file.
